"A warm hearth, and a bright
hearth, and a hearth swept clean,
Where tongs don’t
raise a dust, and the broom isn’t seen;
Where the coals never
fly abroad, and the soot doesn’t fall,
Oh, that’s the
fire for a man like me, in cottage or in hall.
"A light boat, and a tight
boat, and a boat that rides well,
Though the waves leap
around it and the winds blow snell:
A full boat, and a merry
boat, we’ll meet any weather,
With a long pull, and
a strong pull, and a pull altogether."
Sir Edwin Uniacke did not appear again
at the Ledge, or not farther than the hall, where
Christian, in passing, saw several of his cards lying
in the card-basket. And, two Sundays, in glancing
casually down the row of strangers who so often frequented
the beautiful old chapel of St. Bede’s, she
thought she caught sight of that dark, handsome face,
which had once seemed to her the embodiment of all
manly beauty. But she looked steadily forward,
neither seeking nor shrinking from recognition.
There was no need. As she passed out of the
chapel, leaning on her husband’s arm, the grave,
graceful woman, composed rather than proud, Sir Edwin
Uniacke must have felt that Christian Grey was as
far removed from him and the like of him as if she
dwelt already in the world beyond the grave.
But this, perhaps, only made him the more determined
to see her.
Now and then, in her walks with Phillis
and the children-she now never walked alone-she
was certain she perceived him in the distance, his
slight, tan figure, and peculiar way of swinging his
cane, as he strolled down the long avenues, now glowing
into the beauty of that exquisite May time which Avonsbridge
people never weary of praising.
But still, if it were he, and if they
did meet, what harm could it do to her? She
could always guard herself by a lady’s strongest
armor- perfect courtesy. Even should
he recognize her, it was easy to bow and pass on,
as she made up her mind to do, should the occasion
arrive.
It never did, though several times
she had actually been in the same drawing-room with
him. But it was in a crowded company, and he
either did not see her, or had the good taste to assume
that he had not done so. And Miss Gascoigne,
whose eye he caught, had only given him a distant
bow.
“I shall bow, in spite of Dr.
Grey and his crotchets,” said she. “But
I suppose you are too much afraid of your husband.”
Christian did not reply, and the conversation dropped.
One good thing cheered her. Sir
Edwin Uniacke remained in Avonsbridge, and Miss Susan
Bennett was still staying, and doing well in the house
of the blind old woman forty miles away.
Shortly her mind became full of far closer cares.
The domestic atmosphere of the Lodge
was growing daily more difficult to breathe in.
What is it that constitutes an unhappy household?
Not necessarily a wicked or warring household but
still not happy; devoid of that sunniness which, be
the home ever so poor, makes it feel like “a
little heaven below” to those who dwell in it,
or visit it, or even casually pass it by. “See
how these Christians love one another,” used
to be said by the old heathen world; and the world
says it still-nay, is compelled to say
it, of any real Christian home. Alas it could
not always be said of Dr. Grey’s.
Perhaps, in any case, this was unlikely.
There were many conflicting elements therein.
Whatever may be preached, and even practiced sometimes,
satisfactorily, about the advantages of communism,
the law of nature is that a family be distinct within
itself-should consist of father, mother,
and children, and them only. Any extraneous
relationships admitted therein are always difficult
and generally impossible. In this household,
long ruled theoretically by Miss Gascoigne, and practically
by Phillis, who was the cleverest and most determined
woman in it, the elements of strife were always smoldering,
and frequently bursting out into a flame. The
one bone of contention was, as might be expected,
the children-who should rule them, and
whether that rule was to be one of love or fear,
Christian, though young, was neither
ignorant nor inexperienced; and when, day by day and
week by week, she had to sit still and see that saddest
of all sights to a tender heart, children slowly ruined,
exasperated by injustice, embittered by punishment,
made deceitful or cowardly by continual fear, her
spirit wakened up to its full dignity of womanhood
and motherhood.
“They are my children, and I
will not have things thus,” was her continual
thought. But how to effect her end safely and
unobnoxiously was, as it always is, the great difficulty.
She took quiet methods at first-principally
the very simple one of loving the children till they
began to love her. Oliver, and by-and-by Letitia,
seized every chance of escaping out of the noisy nursery,
where Phillis boxed, or beats or scolded all day long,
to mother’s quiet room, where they always found
a gentle word and a smile-a little rivulet
from that
"Constant stream of love
which knew no fail"
which was Cowper’s fondest memory
of his mother, and which should be perpetually flowing
out from the hearts of all mothers toward all children.
These poor children had never known it till now.
Their little hearts opened to it,
and bathed in it as in a fountain of joy. It
washed away all their small naughtinesses, made them
strong and brave, gradually lessened the underhandedness
of the girl, the roughness and selfishness of the
boy, and turned the child Oliver into a little angel-that
is, if children ever are angels except in poetry; but
it is certain, and Christian often shuddered to see
it, that mismanagement and want of love can change
them into little demons.
And at last there came a day when,
passive resistance being useless, she had to strike
with strong hand; the resolute hand which, as before
seen, Christian, gentle as she was, could lift up
against injustice, and especially injustice shown
to children.
It happened thus: One day Arthur
had been very naughty, or so his Aunt Henrietta declared,
when Mrs. Grey, who heard the disturbance, came to
inquire into it. She thought it not such great
wickedness- rather a piece of boyish mischief
than intentional “insult,” as Miss Gascoigne
affirmed it was. The lady had lost her spectacles;
Arthur had pretended deeply to sympathize, had aided
in the search; and finally, after his aunt had spent
several minutes of time and fuss, and angry accusations
against every body, he had led her up to the dining-room
mirror, where she saw the spectacles-calmly
resting on her own nose!
“But I only meant it as a joke,
mother. And oh! it was so funny!” cried
Arthur, between laughing and sobbing; for his ears
tingled still with the sharp blow which had proved
that the matter was no fun at all to Aunt Henrietta.
“It was a very rude joke, and
you ought to beg your aunt’s pardon immediately,”
said Christian, gravely.
But begging pardon was not half enough
salve to the wounded dignity of Miss Gascoigne.
She had been personally offended-that greatest
of all crimes in her eyes-and she demanded
condign punishment. Nothing short of that well-known
instrument which, in compliment to Arthur’s
riper years, Phillis had substituted for the tied up
posy of twigs chosen out of her birch broom-a
little, slender yellow thing, which black children
might once upon a time have played with, and the use
of which towards white children inevitably teaches
them a sense of burning humiliation, rising into fierce
indignation and desire for revenge, not unlike the
revenge of negro slaves. And naturally; for
while chastisement makes Christians, punishment only
makes brutes.
Almost brutal grew the expression
of Arthur’s poor thin face when his aunt insisted
on a flogging with the old familiar cane, and after
the old custom, by Phillis’s hands.
“Do it, and I’ll kill
Phillis!” was all he said, but he looked as if
he could, and would.
And when Phillis appeared, not unready
or unwilling to execute the sentence-for
she had bitterly resented Arthur’s secession
from nursery rule-the boy clung desperately
with both his arms round his step-mother’s
waist, and the shriek of “Mother mother!”
half fury, half despair, pierced Christian’s
very heart.
Now Mrs. Grey had a few rather strong
opinions of her own on the subject of punishment,
especially corporal punishment. She thought it
degraded rather than reformed, in most cases; and wherever
she herself had seen it tried, it had always signally
and fatally failed. At the utmost, the doubtfulness
of the experiment was so great that she felt it ought
never to be administered for any but grave moral offenses-theft,
lying, or the like. Not certainly in such a case
as the present-a childish fault, perhaps
only a childish folly, where no moral harm was either
done or intended.
“I didn’t mean it!
I didn’t, mother!” cried the boy, incessantly,
as he clung to her for protection. And Christian
held him fast.
“Miss Gascoigne, if you will
consider a little, I think you will see that Arthur’s
punishment had better be of some other sort than flogging.
We will discuss it between ourselves. Phillis,
you can go.”
But Phillis did not offer to stir.
“Nurse, obey my orders,”
screamed Miss Gascoigne. “Take that wicked
boy and cane him soundly.”
“Nurse,” said Christian,
turning very pale, and speaking in an unusually suppressed
voice, “if you lay one finger on my son you quit
my service immediately.”
The assumption of authority was so
unexpected, so complete, and yet not overstepping
one inch the authority which Mrs. Grey really possessed,
that both sister-in-law and servant stood petrified,
and offered no resistance, until Miss Gascoigne said,
quivering with passion.
“This can not go on. I
will know at once my rights in this house, or quit
it. Phillis, knock at the study-door and say
I wish to speak to Dr. Grey-that is, if
Mrs. Grey, your mistress, will allow you.”
“Certainly,” said Christian.
And then, drawing Arthur beside her,
and sitting down, for she felt shaking in every limb,
she waited the event; for it was a struggle which
she had long felt must come, and the sooner it came
the better. There are crises when the “peace-at-any-price”
doctrine becomes a weakness--more, an absolute wrong.
Much as she would have suffered, and had suffered,
so long as all the suffering lay with herself alone,
when it came to involve another, she saw her course
was clear. As Arthur stood by her, convulsed
with sobs crying at one minute, “Mother, it’s
not fair, I meant no harm,” and the next, clenching
his little fist with, “If Phillis touches me,
I’ll murder Phillis,” she felt that it
was no longer a question of pleasantness or ease,
or even of saving her husband from pain. It
became a matter or duty-her duty to act
to the best of her conscience and ability toward the
children whom Providence had sent to her. It
was no kindness to her husband to allow these to be
sacrificed, as, if she did not stand firm, Arthur
might be sacrificed for life.
So she sat still, uttering not a word
except an occasional whisper of “Be quiet, Arthur,”
until Dr. Grey entered the room. Even then, she
restrained herself so far as to let Miss Gascoigne
tell the story. She trusted-as she
knew she could trust-to her husband’s
sense of justice and quick-sightedness, even through
any amount of cloudy exaggeration. When the
examination came to an end, and Dr. Grey, sorely perplexed
and troubled, looked toward his wife questioningly,
all she said was a suggestion that both the children-for
Letitia had watched the matter with eager curiosity
from a corner-should be sent out of the
room.
“Yes, yes, certainly Arthur,
let go your mother’s hand, and run up to the
nursery.”
But Arthur’s plaintive sobs
began again. “I can’t go, papa-I
daren’t; Phillis will beat me!”
“Is this true, Christian?”
“I am afraid it is. Had not the children
better wait in my room?”
This order given, and the door closed,
Dr. Grey sat down with very piteous countenance.
He was such a lover of peace and quietness and now
to be brought from his study into the midst of this
domestic hurricane-it was rather hard.
He looked from his wife to his sister, and back again
to his wife. There his eyes rested and brightened
a little. The contrast between the two faces
was great-one so fierce and bitter, the
other sad indeed, but composed and strong. Nature
herself, who, in the long run, usually decides between
false and true authority, showed at once who possessed
the latter-which of the two women was the
most fitted to govern children.
“Henrietta,” said Dr.
Grey, “what is it you wish me to do? if my boy
has offended you, of course he must be punished.
Leave him to Mrs. Grey; she will do what is right.”
“Then I have no longer any authority in this
house?”
“Authority in my wife’s
house my sister could hardly desire. Influence
she might always have; and respect and affection will,
I trust, never be wanting.”
Dr. Grey spoke very kindly, and held
out his hand, but Miss Gascoigne threw it angrily
aside; and then, breaking through even the unconscious
restraint in which most women, even the most violent,
are held by the presence of a man, and especially
such a man as the master, she burst out-this
poor passionate woman, cursed with that terrible pre-dominance
of self which in men is ugly enough, in women absolutely
hateful-
“Never! Keep your hypocrisies
to yourself, and your wife too-the greatest
hypocrite I know. But she can not deceive me.
Maria”-and she rushed at luckless
Aunt Maria, who that instant, knitting in hand, was
quietly entering the room-“come here,
Maria, and be a witness to what your brother is doing.
He is turning me out of his house-me,
who, since my poor sister died, have been like a mother
to his children. He is taking them from me, and
giving them over to that woman-that bad,
low, cunning woman!”
“Stop!” cried Dr. Grey.
“One word more like that, and I will
turn you out of my house-ay, this very
night!”
There was a dead pause. Even
Miss Gascoigne was frightened. Christian, who
had never in all her life witnessed such a scene, wished
she had done any thing-borne any thing,
rather than have given cause for it. And yet
the children! Looking at that furious woman,
she felt- any observer would have felt-that
to leave children in Miss Gascoigne’s power
was to ruin them for life. No; what must be done
had better be done now than when too late. Yet
her heart failed her at sight of poor Aunt Maria’s
sobs.
“Oh, dear Arnold, what is the
matter? You haven’t been vexing Henrietta?
But you never vex any body, you are so good.
Dear Henrietta, are we really to go back to our own
house at Avonside? Well, I don’t mind.
It is a pretty house, far more cheerful than the
Lodge; and our tenants are just leaving, and they have
kept the furniture in the best of order-the
nice furniture that dear Arnold gave us, you know.
Even if he does want us to leave the Lodge, it is
quite natural. I always said so. And we
shall only be a mile away, and can have the children
to spend long days with us, and-”
Simple Aunt Maria, in her hasty jumping
at conclusions, had effected more than she thought
of-more harm and more good.
“I assure you, Maria,”
said Dr. Grey with a look of sudden relief, which
he tried hard-good man!-to conceal,
“it never was my intention to suggest your leaving
but since you have suggested it-”
“I will go,” interrupted
Miss Gascoigne. “Say not another word;
we will go. I will not stay to be insulted here;
I will return to my own house-my own poor
humble cottage, where at least I can live independent
and at peace-yes, Dr. Grey, I will, however
you may try to prevent me.”
“I do not prevent you.
On the contrary, I consider it would be an excellent
plan, and you have my full consent to execute it whenever
you choose.”
This quiet taking of her at her word-this
brief, determined, and masculine manner of settling
what she had no intention of doing unless driven to
it through a series of feminine arguments, contentions,
and storms, was quite too much for Miss Gascoigne.
“Go back to Avonside Cottage!
Shut myself up in that poor miserable hole-”
“Oh, Henrietta!” expostulated
Aunt Maria, “when it is so nicely furnished-with
the pretty little green-house that dear Arnold built
for us too!”
“Don’t tell me of green-houses!
I say it is only a hole. And I to settle down
in it-to exile myself from Avonsbridge society,
that Mrs. Grey may rule here, and boast that she has
driven me out of the field-me, the last
living relative of your dear lost wife, to say nothing
of poor Maria, your excellent sister to whom you owe
so much-”
“Oh, Henrietta!” pleaded
Miss Grey once more. “Never mind her, dear,
dear Arnold.”
Dr. Grey looked terribly hurt, but
he and Aunt Maria exchanged one glance and one long
hand-clasp. Whatever debt there was between the
brother and sister, love had long since canceled it
all.
“Pacify her, Maria-you
know you can. Make her think better of all this
nonsense. My wife and my sisters could never
be rivals; it is ridiculous to suppose such a thing.
But, indeed, I believe we should all be much better
friends if you were in your own house at Avonside.”
“I think so, too,” whispered
Aunt Maria. “I have thought so ever so
long.”
“Then it is settled,”
replied Dr. Grey, in the mild way in which he did
sometimes settle things, and after which you might
just as well attempt to move him as to move the foundations
of St. Bede’s.
It was all so sudden, this total domestic
revolution, which yet every body inwardly recognized
as a great relief, that for a minute or two nobody
found a word more to say, until Miss Gascoigne, who
generally had both the first word and the last, broke
out again.
“Yes, you have done it, and
it shall never be undone, however you may live to
repent it. Dr. Grey, I quit your house, shaking
the dust off my feet: see that it does not rise
up in judgment against you. Maria-my
poor Maria-your own brother may forsake
you, but I never will. We go away together-tomorrow.”
“Not tomorrow,” said Dr.
Grey. “Your tenants have only just left,
and we must have the cottage made comfortable for
you. Let me see, this is the 8th; suppose we
settle that you leave on the 20th of June. Will
that do, Maria?”
As he spoke he took her little fat
hand, patted it lovingly, and then kissed her.
“You’ll not be unhappy,
sister? You know it is only going back to the
old ways, and to the old country life, which you always
liked much better than this.”
“Much-much better.
You are quite right, as you always are, dear Arnold,”
This was said in a whisper, but Miss Gascoigne caught
it.
“Ah! yes, I see what you are
doing-stealing from me the only heart that
loves me-persuading her to stay behind.
Very well. Do it, Maria. Remain with your
brother and your brother’s wife. Forget
me, who am nothing to any body-of no use
to one creature living.”
Poor woman without meaning it, she
had hit upon something very near the truth.
It always is so-always must be. People
win what they earn; those who sow the wind reap the
whirlwind. Handsome, clever, showy, and admired,
as she had been in her day, probably not one living
soul did now care for Henrietta Gascoigne except foolish,
faithful Aunt Maria.
And yet there must have been some
good in her, something worth caring for, even to retain
that affection, weak and submissive as it may have
been. Christian’s heart smote her as if
she herself had been guilty of injustice toward Miss
Gascoigne when she saw Miss Grey creep up to her old
friend, the tears flowing like a mill-stream.
“No, dear, I shall not stay
behind. Arnold doesn’t want me. And
I have always put up with you somehow-I
mean, you have put with me-we shall manage
to do it still. We’ll live together again,
as we did for so many years, in our pretty cottage
and garden that dear Arnold gave us, and I will look
after my poultry, and you shall do your visiting.
Yes, dear Henrietta, it will be all for the best.
We shall be so independent, so happy.”
Happy! It was not a word in Miss
Gascoigne’s dictionary. But she looked
with a certain tenderness at the fond little woman
who had loved her, borne with her, never in the smallest
degree resisted her since they were girls together.
It was a strange tie, perhaps finding its origin
in something deeper than itself-in that
dead captain, whose old-fashioned miniature still
lay in poor Maria’s drawer-the fierce,
handsome face, proving that, had he lived, he might
have been as great a tyrant over her as his sister
Henrietta. Still, however it arose, the bond
was there, and nothing but death could ever break it
between these two lonely women.
“Come, then, Maria, we shall
share our last crust together. You, at least,
have never wronged me. Come away.”
Gathering her dress about her with
a tragical air, and plucking it, as she passed Mrs.
Grey, as though the possible touch were pollution,
Aunt Henrietta swept from the room; Aunt Maria, after
one deprecatory look behind, as if to say, “You
see I can’t do otherwise,” slowly following.
And so it was all over-safely
over-this great change, which, however
longed for, had not been contemplated as a possibility
one hour before. It had arranged itself out of
the most trivial elements, as great events often do.
There could be no question that every body felt it
to be the best thing, and every body was thankful;
and yet Christian watched her husband with a little
uncertainty until she heard him heave a sigh of relief.
“Yes, I am sure it was right
to be done, and I am glad it is done. Are not
you, Christian?”
“Oh, so glad! I hope it
is not wicked in me, but I am so glad!”
“Why-to have me all
to yourself?” said he, smiling at her energy.
A strange, unwonted thrill ran through
Christian’s heart as she recognized, beyond
possibility of doubt, that this was the secret source
of her delight-of the feeling as if a new
existence were opening before her-as if
the heavy weight which had oppressed her were taken
off, and she could move through those old gloomy rooms,
which had once struck a chill through her whole being,
with a sense as if she were as light as air, and as
merry as a bird in the spring.
To have the Lodge made into a real
home-a home altogether her own-
and emptied of all but those who were really her own,
with a glad welcome for any visitors, but still only
as visitors, coming and going, and never permanently
interfering with the sweet, narrow circle of the family
fireside; to be really mistress in her own house; to
have her time to herself; to spend long mornings with
the children; long evenings alone with her husband,
even if he sat for hours poring over his big books
and did not speak a word-oh, how delicious
it would be!
“Yes, all to myself-I’ll
have you all to myself,” she murmured, as she
put her arms round his neck, and looked right up into
his eyes. For the first time she was sure-quite
sure that she loved him. And as she stood embraced,
encircled and protected by his love, and thought of
her peaceful life now and to come, full of duties,
blessings, and delights, ay, though it had also no
lack of cares. Christian felt sorry-oh,
so infinitely sorry for poor Aunt Henrietta.